Far From Home
by xRiddleMeThisx
Summary: Hermione finds herself lost in an unknown place with a very unexpected person. Although hesitant at first, she soon learns that they are going to have to work together if she ever wants to find her way home. TR/HG
1. The Stranger

**Author's note: **This is my second story, for those of you who don't know. Don't worry, I'm not abandoning _How Times Change_... I will simply be working on both at the same time. Anyway, I'll post more information about this story on my author's page. For right now, I guess I should just say that as this is a Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger fic, it should be considered slightly AU. However, I will be trying to follow canon as best as I can. I hope you all like it – let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, everything belongs to J.K. Rowling, and this story is written purely for amusement in my free time.

Chapter 1

The Stranger

She woke with her head pounding.

It must have been late, or very, very early; there was no moon out, and her bedroom was pitch-black. _All the better,_ she thought vaguely to herself. _I'm sure the sunlight would only make me feel worse._

Hermione Granger moaned and rolled over in her bed, wishing she would fall back to sleep. Never, in her twenty years of life, had she ever experienced a pain like this. Her head felt as though it was about to explode, her mouth was more than a little parched, and the longer she stayed awake, the more she felt as though she was going to be sick all over herself.

_So this is what a hangover feels like._

She cursed the day that Ron finally convinced her to go drinking and pulled the covers up over her head.

Hermione had never been one for drinking. To be quite honest, she thought all alcohol tasted foul. And, she thought as she sniffed the stale air beneath her sheets, it smelled even worse. Usually, when Harry and Ron wanted to go out drinking she would either stay behind or tag along reluctantly and order a pumpkin juice. On the rare occasion that Ron would force her to try a firewhiskey she would only allow herself to have one drink. There was no sense in overindulging in something that would make her lose her good judgment and feel sick the following day.

Last night, however, was the first time that she had given in and had what Harry had called a "proper night out." Under normal circumstances Hermione would have determinedly stayed away from anything toxic, but that night was a special occasion: it was the night marking the two year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Unbelievable as it seemed, two long years had passed since the downfall of Lord Voldemort and the death of all those innocent people.

Yes, Hermione had to agree, it was a momentous occasion, and together, the Golden Trio had headed out to the Leaky Cauldron to have a night of celebration and remembrance.

And now as she lay on her sickbed, she wondered why anyone would think it was worth it to go drinking _ever_, even to celebrate. She tried to remember how many drinks she had had... from the degree of her headache she would guess more than a few, but as she never consumed much alcohol, her drinking tolerance could be very low.

It was at this point that Hermione realized it was storming outside. A huge thunder clap sounded and she bolted upright in bed, her heart racing at the unexpected sound. This was a mistake; at her sudden movement, (and probably also the loud noise), her headache mounted to a point that was almost unbearable. Her head was spinning, and she really thought for a moment that she was going to be sick. Then a flash of lightening lit up the room, and Hermione momentarily forgot about her weak stomach.

This was not her room.

She rubbed her eyes. It must have been a trick of the light... it was so dark in here, and her head was spinning anyway, so she could be delirious.

But then the lightening flashed again, and she saw for the second time that this was certainly and most definitely _not_ her room at Number 12 Grimmald Place. Her own room was larger... and more cluttered... This one was stark. It was smaller, and the window was facing the opposite direction.

She began to panic. _What happened last night? Where did I go? Where am I now?!_ A million possibilities ran through her head, and not one of them made any sense to her whatsoever.

With her heart a heavy lump in her throat, Hermione felt her side for her wand. It was still there, thank goodness, and she grasped it immediately.

_"Lumos." _

The wand's light illuminated the rest of what she had missed before. Wincing at first because the brightness stung her eyes, she then saw that she was lying in a decent sized bed adorned with a tacky floral pattern. Across the room was a white chest of drawers, and hanging from the wall was a slightly chipped mirror. The walls were painted a dirty white color and the solitary window was draped with a heavy pink curtain.

Her heart began to pound. She could not, for the life of her, remember arriving here. She had been at the Leaky Cauldron... she remembered sitting at a table in the back, cluttered with empty bottles... Harry and Ron were there, and so were some other people... they had been talking, and hadn't they been playing some sort of game? Unfortunately, that's where her memory stopped. Anything could have happened between then and now. Was Ron or Harry with her? Was this some kind of inn? Had she been... she shuddered... _forced_ to come here? The thought of what could have happened last night sickened her.

Outside, thunder roared again and the rain continued pound against the window. Hermione shivered; it was awfully cold in here. She wondered if she dare leave this room and find out where she was.

After a few more minutes of huddling beneath the covers and trying to remember what had happened between the time she was at the Leaky Cauldron and now, Hermione decided that yes, she did dare to see what lay outside this room.

Her Gryffindor courage mounting, Hermione took a firm grip on her wand and pushed aside the floral comforter. It had still been warm with her body heat and now, her bare arms fully exposed to the damp air, she felt colder than ever. She placed her feet tentatively on the drafty floor and cringed when they made a creaking noise. Then, after another moment of trying to calm herself, she moved towards the door on the opposite side of the room.

Halfway there she tripped and fell over something.

Hermione swore and grabbed the place where she had stubbed her toe. Despite her wand light, the room had still been dark and she hadn't seen the object blocking her way to the door. Now that she was sprawled on the ground, though, she was close enough to see that it was a small duffle-like bag.

_Is this mine?_ She thought to herself in dismay. This made her think that she had come here willingly, for a reason, but couldn't remember why. _Has my memory been erased? _Still horrified, Hermione left the bag and continued her journey towards the door.

It was unlocked, thankfully. Hermione didn't know what she would have done if she was stuck in this place without knowing where she was or why. She opened the door slowly. It creaked, just like the floor.

Beyond the door was a small hallway. Though this was dark as well, she could tell she was in a small house. There were two doors on either wall, including hers, all of which were closed. She wondered if the other three were occupied as well, but didn't quite dare to find out. Instead, she held her breath and ventured out of her room, hoping that if there were anyone else here, they wouldn't hear any noise.

The house was silent, save for the weather still storming outside, and when she walked her footsteps seemed to echo all over the place. Surely they would give her away. Hermione continued down the corridor, waiting for the moment when she would be caught. She didn't know why she felt as though she was doing something wrong; after all, she had woken tucked up in a rather comfortable bed – if she had been forced here, would her captors really allow her to sleep in such luxury? Despite this, though, the situation she was in gave her the creeps, and she had a feeling that something bad was about to happen any moment.

Hermione arrived at the end of the hall, and her wand light showed that it opened out into a small, dark kitchen. There was no one in here. She let out her breath and crept further into the room.

There were two doors beside the small threshold she had just come from. One was curtained and she guessed that this led to the outside; the other, a plain, small doorway, was closed. Hermione sighed – she was apparently going to have to start opening doors soon.

Her heart pounding, she crossed the floor and placed her hand on the antique doorknob. It swung open easily and let her into yet another dark and empty room. Hermione narrowed her eyes and wondered if anyone really was home.

She went back through the kitchen, into the hall, and tried the first door on the left. It was a bathroom. Bathed in her wand light, Hermione noted that it contained a small sink, a strange-looking toilet, and a dirty and cracked tub. When she placed her foot on the dark tile, she discovered that it was sticky with a sort of film.

Hermione suppressed the urge to be sick in the toilet and backed out of the room. Then she tried the other two doors that didn't lead back to the room she had woken up in, and discovered that they were both bedrooms, and both empty. She didn't know if this was more relieving or worrisome. On one hand, now that she was by herself she could calmly think through the situation and try to get home; on the other, she had no idea what had happened and being that she was alone, no one was around to do some explaining.

As the wind howled outside and rain pattered against the window of the third bedroom, Hermione tried to weigh her options. She could leave the house, but that probably wouldn't be of much use; it was pitch-black outside, and the storm would soak her through within seconds. She then considered apparating back home, but decided against it; what if Harry or Ron was around here somewhere? She didn't want to leave them alone and not be able to get back to them because she didn't know where she was in the first place.

A thunder clap roared again and Hermione almost jumped out of her skin at the noise. She decided then that the best plan of action would be to find some kind of light to use other than her wand; she could barely see where she was going, and the darkness was only adding to her growing nerves.

She made her way back to the kitchen, creaking on the stiff floorboards as she walked. Within a few moments she was able to find an old-fashioned gas lamp sitting on the table. Using her wand, she started a small flame that lit up most of the room. Now she was finally able to get a good look at where she was.

It was a kitchen, all right – she hadn't been mistaken at that; but it was smaller than she first thought, and... _dirtier_... than she would have guessed. It looked as though someone had just made a big meal and left everything out to fester over night... or over the course of a few days...

She wrinkled her nose. There was certainly some kind of food left out, and it was starting to smell rancid. Dishes and saucers littered the counter... there was a large pot sitting in the sink... and, as she peered more closely, there was a china tea set out on the table. She carefully picked up one of the cups and saw that it was still half-filled with cold tea.

Hermione placed the china back on its dish with a _clink_ and, taking the gas lamp, went to explore the rest of the house.

The room beyond the kitchen turned out to be a sort of sitting room. There was a dark, dumpy-looking couch, a dusty fireplace, and pillows everywhere. The walls, hung with various portraits crafted in varying degrees of skill, seemed to be painted in the same dirty-white color as the bedroom. She walked by a table adorned with books and trinkets, past a pair of armchairs, and stood in the middle of the room holding the lamp high above her head.

_Well_, she thought optimistically, _at least it doesn't smell in here._

As she stood surveying the room, something caught her eye. Lying draped over one of the armchairs was one of the most beautiful throws she had ever seen in her entire life. She carefully set the lamp on one of the end tables and fingered the fabric. It was soft, and though her eyes were untrained in matters of needlework, she saw that it was finely crafted. Hermione let out a soft sigh of awe; it must have been embroidered – the entire piece of art was composed of strange geometric patterns, detailed in rich reds and oranges. One thing was certain: this was a fine piece of handicraft, and it undoubtedly clashed with the somewhat unkempt atmosphere of the rest of the house.

She sat on the edge of the armchair for a while, continuing to admire the finer details of the embroidery, when a noise other than rain or thunder sounded from outside the house.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk._

Hermione jumped at the sudden and quite unexpected noise. She looked wildly around and, after spotting what appeared to be the front door, gathered that someone was knocking to be let in.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk._

It sounded a second time. Hermione's insides knotted up into a nervous mass – who was it? Did this person live here? Were they dangerous? Why were they out so late at night? If they lived here, why were they knocking?

_Thunk, thunk, thunk._

They could possibly know what happened to her. They may be able to help.

_It might be Ron or Harry._

_THUNK, THUNK, THUNK._

Whoever they were, though, they were apparently very intent on being let in. Hearing the wind outside howl, Hermione didn't blame them. So, gathering as much Gryffindor courage as she could muster for the umpteenth time that night, Hermione strode to the door, unclicked the lock, and twisted the handle.

She gripped her wand tightly in one hand as the door swung opened, and hoped as hard as she could that the person standing outside had no intentions of harming her.

Hermione blinked.

Standing on the threshold was not some crazed lunatic – or, at least, she didn't think so. It was obviously not someone who would have any idea of what happened to her last night. Nor was it Harry or Ron, or anyone else that she might have recognized.

No, standing outside, shivering and waiting to be let in, was a very wet and travel-worn-looking young man. His hair, dripping wet, stuck round his pale face in dark spikes. His dark Muggle suit was soaked through and clung heavily to his body. As he stood there, rain continued to pelt on his head and dripped from his hairline down to the tips of his nose and chin.

He looked at her, surprised for a moment, and then inclined his head. "Mirëmbrëma. Si jeni?" he said politely.

Hermione was taken aback by this. She had, out of all things, not expected him to be foreign. Visions of the strange embroidery clouded her mind and she started to wonder if she was a bit farther from London than she first thought. Meanwhile, the man stood shivering in the doorway, waiting for her to respond, and she realized she had no idea of what to say.

"Um," she said stupidly, "I'm sorry, I don't know..." she trailed off, at a loss to what language it was that he had spoken.

A look of relief crossed his face. "Oh good," he said. "You're English, too."

Hermione frowned in confusion. Was she not expected to be English? Now she was almost certain that she was somewhere far from England.

One of his hands mopped his dripping face, trying to get water out of his eyes. "May I come in?" he asked.

"Oh, um," Hermione stammered, "of course." She stood aside and let him come through. He stood in the entranceway, drenched from head to toe. In the dim candlelight, Hermione saw that he was younger than she first thought, and a good deal taller, too. She surmised that he was probably about her own age, give or take a year or so. He held out his arms and looked himself over, as though he found the water dripping from his body intriguing. Then he spotted the wand in Hermione's hand.

"Oh, good," he said. "You're a witch. I was afraid for a moment that you might be a Muggle." Then he slipped his own wand out from one of his jacket pockets. An instant later he was completely dry and brushing the sleeves of his neat black suit. "This is Professor Nopcsa's house, am I correct?"

"Er, yes," she found herself saying. In all honesty she had no idea who this house belonged to, but if this person believed that it belonged to a Professor Nopcsa, then it probably did.

"Is he home?" He stepped further into the living area and set his small bag on the floor. "He should be expecting me."

"No, he's out."

The boy looked confused. His eyes narrowed and he peered at Hermione closely.

"Do you, by chance, know where he is?" he pried.

Hermione was beginning to feel very stupid. "Er, no; I don't. I just arrived myself, actually."

He nodded and stepped around her, eyeing the room. She followed his gaze as he glanced from the dumpy couch to the portraits on the wall to the trinket-laden end tables and the empty fireplace. Finally his eyes rested on the gas lantern she was holding.

"I presume you are visiting as well, then?"

"Yes."

"How did you arrive?" He spoke slowly and carefully, as though he didn't believe her story.

"I flooed in."

He raised a long, thin eyebrow.

"I had his house connected to the floo network," she continued quickly, trying to cover her tracks. "Just for an hour. So I could get here easily." Hermione mentally kicked herself for lying. Why was she saying all of this? This boy was obviously not a threat; maybe he could help her.

Still, she lied anyway. She didn't trust anything about her situation at the moment, lest of all, this stranger.

"I didn't know that he wouldn't be here," she added.

He nodded his head slowly, obviously considering the situation. "I see."

After a moment of awkward silence, Hermione decided to take the plunge. "If you don't mind me asking," she said tentatively, "er, who _are_ you?"

He looked at her as though really seeing her for the first time and a smiled snapped on his face.

"Oh do forgive me. I'm an acquaintance of the Professor. My name is Tom Riddle."


	2. The Ring

**Author's note: **I just wanted to thank all of you for all of your reviews and alerts! I seriously did not think I would get this much awesome feedback for just the first chapter. Anyway, here's the next installment... I hope you like it!

Chapter 2

The Ring

Hermione's first inclination was to laugh. Looking to the front door, she expected Ron or George to burst inside and yell _"gotcha!"_ And Harry would pull off his invisibility cloak and Hermione would scold them, because this was a rather twisted way to take advantage of her inebriation; but then they would all laugh it off because the hoax _was_ put together nicely, after all.

After a few moments, though, her hopeful stare at the door became one of desperation and she turned once more to the stranger. He was looking at her curiously, as though intrigued by her reaction. There was no sign of smile anymore, and Hermione could see no laughter in his eyes.

_My God, he's not joking._

Hermione's breathing became ragged as this realization dawned on her. Harry and Ron were not here; this was not some elaborate prank; and, even more disturbingly, this boy seriously had the nerve to believe his name was Tom Riddle.

_What the hell was going on?_

The boy coughed to break the silence and held out a hand for Hermione to shake. Instead of grasping it, though, she just eyed it accusingly, as though his long, slender fingers were to blame for this whole mess.

"Ah," he said awkwardly, closing his outstretched hand into a fist and letting it swing back to his side. "Well."

As he went through this motion, something caught Hermione's eye: he was wearing a ring. It was large and almost gaudy: a dull gold band adorned with an oversized black stone. And on the black stone itself she could almost make out... Her breath hitched. _She had seen that ring before._

But it couldn't be. That was impossible; it must be a trick of the light, and she had only seen it for a split second anyway.

_But it was so similar._

The boy kept looking at her, probably waiting for her to respond or introduce herself, but Hermione didn't know what to say. Her mind went blank, yet seemed to explode with thoughts at the same time. Ron and Harry... The Leaky Cauldron... the house... the boy... the ring... She didn't know what to do – what _could_ she do? And all the while she still felt sick... and was feeling sicker by the minute... Oh, it was all too much.

So she ran.

Backing away as fast as she could past the end tables and the books and the trinkets, she bolted; not to the front door, but through the kitchen again, past the hall, and into the bathroom. She reached her destination in just enough time to skid onto the floor, pull back her hair, and vomit straight into the toilet.

Hermione sat heaving over the side of the bowl until all the alcohol had left her stomach. As her gags turned into a dry retch she wiped a clammy hand across her mouth and fell shaking to the floor.

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, breathing deeply several times. Presently her shaking stopped and the nauseous feeling in her stomach receded and she was able to think more clearly about the situation.

What in Merlin's name was going on? She tried to put the pieces of evidence together, but nothing was matching up or making sense. Just a few hours ago she had been with her friends in London, having a good time... Okay, she _had _been drinking, and most probably passed out due to that... but that didn't explain how she ended up here... And where was _'here'_ anyway? She had the distinct feeling that she was nowhere near London anymore. But how could she have traveled so far without realizing it? And _why_ had she traveled here? Had something bad happened at the Leaky Cauldron, or did it occur afterwards? Was everyone else left behind or were they lost somewhere too?

And who was this boy? Yes, he said his name was Tom Riddle... Hermione snorted in disbelief. That's impossible; Voldemort died two years ago. If anything, the boy was a lunatic, and obviously not to be trusted. However, Hermione _could_ see that he had no idea about what happened to her; so, despite her misgivings, she didn't blame him for her arrival in this strange house.

But still, it was a strange situation. _It could be a coincidence_, Hermione tried to rationalize. Tom is a very common name, and Riddle... well, it's possible. Or he could be some crazy youth, obsessed with the darkest wizard of the twentieth century and bent on recreating his life.

But then there was the ring... Thinking about that made Hermione's stomach churn again. She could have _sworn_ it looked exactly like the Resurrection Stone, Slytherin's ring... _the horcrux_. Admittedly, she had never seen it very close up. Every time she had laid eyes on the ring, it had graced Dumbledore's hand. Harry had carried it with him the entire time they were searching for Horcurxes but, of course, it had remained hidden in the golden snitch until the very end, when Harry was alone. He had then dropped it in the Forbidden Forest and no one, herself included, had seen it since.

Nonetheless, she knew its image. Her vague memory combined with Harry's description and the knowledge of the Deathly Hallow's symbol made this horcrux quite easy to spot. She should be able to recognize it instantly. In fact, if the circumstances here hadn't been so odd, she would have accepted the appearance of the ring without question. But what were the chances of this boy, claiming to be Voldemort himself, finding the ring in the Forbidden Forest and then crossing paths with Hermione?

This was all too weird.

As Hermione's head continue to pound from both the hangover and her extremely odd predicament, another thought crossed her mind.

_What if we never really destroyed that Horcrux?_

Dumbledore said he had, but what if a piece of soul was still locked inside? What if it manifested another form of Tom Riddle, just as the diary had? Found by some innocent traveler, the ring could have sucked the life out of its wearer and begun to gather enough strength to produce a solid memory of a young Riddle.

She let out a short laugh. What a ridiculous idea! Honestly, a shadow-Riddle coming to haunt her from a horcrux; that made no sense whatsoever.

_Or maybe_, she thought to herself, _I'm just going crazy. Perhaps I'm dreaming – or, probably, the alcohol is still messing with me. I could be hallucinating, or having an allergic reaction..._

She shook her head. That explanation seemed almost as ludicrous as the horcrux theory. _Although,_ she thought dimly, _I have nothing better to go off of._ Hermione sighed. Thinking in circles like this was getting her nowhere. Perhaps if she talked to the boy she could gather some clues as to what really happened.

Deciding that her stomach was settled enough to leave the bathroom floor, she stood up and crossed the room to where the small sink was located. Hermione winced as she caught her reflection in the mirror: she looked like hell. Her eyes were bloodshot and surrounded by large, puffy dark circles, which stood out in contrast to her otherwise pale face. Her lips were dry and cracked and her hair was sticking out in all directions. If the stench, the headache, and the puking were not strong enough to convince her, this certainly was: she was most definitely _never_ going to drink ever again.

She gave a sigh and turned one of the taps. To her disgust, it let out a stream of brown water. Hermione recoiled and felt the remaining contents of her stomach surface to her throat.

_"Oh, how disgusting..."_

The brown water splashed against the sides of the washbasin and formed a small pool in the bottom by the drain. Completely repulsed, Hermione shut off the tap and rinsed her hands and face with water from her wand. When she was done she dried her hands on the side of her pants and ventured back out into the hallway.

The boy was standing in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen when she arrived, one hand gripping his wand, the other carrying the gas lamp. He took no notice of Hermione as she stood awkwardly at the end of the hall, and silently surveyed the room. Hermione wondered briefly if she had offended him by running off before.

Slowly and carefully, he placed the lamp on the table and eyed the same tea set Hermione had handled only a few minutes ago.

"It looks like he left in a hurry," he murmured, almost to himself.

So they were thinking on the same page. "That's what I thought," she said, taking a step further into the room.

He nodded and left the table. Moving about the room, he began to examine things Hermione hadn't dared to touch on her first encounter through the house. He moved from counter to counter with a sense of purpose, lifting this bowl, pushing aside that pot. She stood back a little awkwardly as he deftly fingered the plates in the sink, opened a cupboard door, shifted aside a stack of papers.

Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for.

"Ah-ha," he said softly, opening another cabinet with a _creak_. Almost instantly, the rancid smell that had plagued the room intensified to a horrible degree and Hermione began to feel lightheaded. Crouching down, he reached inside the cupboard and pulled out a sight grotesque enough to rival the water in the bathroom sink.

It was a piece of meat. Completely the wrong color, grizzled in spots, and host to a handful of maggots, it was a slab of rotten, decaying meat.

Hermione took an involuntary step backward and put a hand over her nose. "Oh how _foul_ – who in the world would...?" But she couldn't finish her sentence. The boy had placed the platter on the table and the smell, if possible, seemed to get worse. She gagged. "What are you doing? Just get _rid_ of it already..."

He eyed the meat and wrinkled his nose. "I don't know about you, but I'm starved..."

She stared at him at disbelief. There was no doubt in her mind now that he really was a lunatic.

_"Are you insane?_ That meat is rotten, rancid, covered in _maggots_, for God's sake..._"_

He looked at her blankly and the corner of his mouth seemed to twitch. "Of course I'm not insane," he said. "You simply did not let me finish." As he spoke he lifted his wand and poked it into the side of the meat. A moment later the maggots had receded, the flesh turned a healthy brown, and the rotten smell in the air was replaced by one of a warm, savory roast.

Hermione felt her face grow hot and red. The boy rose an eyebrow, cocked his head, and, his eyes never leaving hers, twitched his wand. Smoke started trailing from spout of the teapot and the smell of sweet tea began to mix in the air. He then turned around and retrieved a stack of now-clean cutlery and placed it on the table. Sliding a chair aside, he smiled politely and said to Hermione, "after you."

She blushed again. Hesitating for a moment, Hermione moved when she saw that he was not going to sit down first. Just as she thought, the stranger waited until she was seated to sit at his spot across the table. Hermione gave him a small smile and looked down at the table. The roast had been cut. He indicated that she should take her share and, not wanting to be rude, Hermione served herself several pieces of meat.

"Bread?"

He offered her a plate of what she had previously assumed to be stale rolls. Muttering a word of thanks, Hermione took one and discovered that not only was it soft, but warm as well.

_Okay – so he may be a lunatic, but he's a rather clever lunatic._

As soon as Hermione had poured herself a cup of tea (into a now-clean china saucer) the boy served himself and made a little sandwich out of one of the rolls and a piece of meat.

They sat in silence, the boy chewing slowly on his sandwich and Hermione pushing her food around on her plate with her fork. She had to admit, considering its state only a few minutes ago, the meat certainly looked and smelled delicious. She really was tempted to try some; however, her stomach was still feeling a bit queasy and she did not want to risk having another episode in the bathroom. So, resigned to this limitation, Hermione only nibbled at a piece of the bread and sipped some tea. It was a rather unsatisfying dinner – or breakfast – but it would have to do.

As she broke off small chucks of bread her eyes wandered over to the strange boy sitting a few feet across the table. He ate in silence, chewing his food carefully and never looking at Hermione. She watched as his long, slender fingers held his fork and lifted his food to his thin lips; the way he took small bites, dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin... He seemed so careful, so polite; Hermione marveled at his behavior.

Could this really be a version of Voldemort? Dumbledore _had _said that Riddle had been polite and charming as a young man. Hermione squinted at him in the darkness, without trying to seem too conspicuous. He _could_ fit the part, she mused. It's not like this boy had red hair and freckles. Dark hair and eyes; a pale, thin face; sharp features that stood out in the dim candlelight... If anything, that is how she _would _picture a young, handsome Riddle.

Stirring her tea around, Hermione averted her eyes from his face and instead trained them on his hand. There was the ring. It looked just as it had before, with its gold band and large black stone... but was there something written _on_ the stone? It did look as though something had been scratched onto the ring's surface, but it was too dark in the room for Hermione to tell for sure. Her heart skipped a beat; if the sign of the Deathly Hallows really was embossed onto the top of the stone, she knew she was in big trouble.

The boy looked up from his meal and saw Hermione staring at him. She turned away and focused on the piece of half-eaten bread still sitting on her plate. A few awkward moments went by before she was able to bring herself to look at him again. He was sipping his tea slowly, gazing at her from across the table.

"So tell me..." He raised an eyebrow, as though inviting Hermione to introduce herself.

"Hermione," she said. "You can call me Hermione."

He nodded. "Hermione." There was a pause during which he set the cup gently on its china saucer. "Hermione, why are you visiting the Professor this evening?"

"We're related," she lied easily, without thinking. "He's my great-uncle or something of the sorts. I haven't seen him in a while so we decided it was time for a visit."

"How nice." His lips twitched up into a half-smile, though Hermione could see no amusement in his eyes. "So you've been here before?"

"Well, yes, but not for a long time. I was very young the last time I was here."

"But he's visited you before."

"Once or twice, yes."

He nodded again and the two fell into silence. Hermione could still hear the wind howling relentlessly against the side of the house.

In an attempt to get the conversation away from herself she asked, "so what about you? What brings you to...?" She trailed off, hoping to get a clue as to where she was.

"To Professor Nopcsa's house?" he suggested, to her great annoyance. "Oh, I'm just a wandering traveler, passing through the area. He graciously offered me a place to stay and I accepted."

"Oh?"

He nodded lightly, and said nothing.

Hermione inwardly groaned. Getting information from this boy was like pulling teeth.

"So where have your travels taken you so far?"

He blinked, as though surprised by her question, but his smile never left his face. He folded his hands on the table and seemed to consider Hermione. "Oh, here and there," he said simply.

Hermione sighed. This conversation was going nowhere.

"That's fascinating," she said, prying some more. "I've never been much of a traveler myself, but you must have been just about everywhere.

He frowned. "Well, I wouldn't say _everywhere_," he said slowly. "I haven't really extended my travels outside of Europe."

_Okay, so I'm still in Europe... _that_ narrows things down a bit._

"Have you ever visited, er, _here_ before?" She crossed her fingers under the table.

_Oh please say where we are; please say where we are..._

But he just shook his head. "No; this is my first time. Actually, I was hoping for the Professor to show me around, but..." He gestured around to the empty house.

Hermione made a noise of sympathy and glanced down at her plate miserably. Whoever this was, she decided, he was awfully good at concealing information. In a last-ditch effort to learn _something_ of her situation, she asked one more question: "Do you think you'll be staying for long, then?"

That mechanical smiled snapped back on his face. "You know I would love to answer you, but – " he paused to stifle a yawn, "I've had a long day and I'm just _exhausted_. If you like we can continue this conversation another time."

"Oh," Hermione said, taken aback by this abrupt halt to the conversation. "Sure. Of course."

He stood up from the table and carefully pushed in his chair. With a flick of his wand the leftover food on the table vanished. The perfect image of a gentleman, he inclined his head charmingly and said "sleep well," before taking his small bag and heading down the corridor.

Hermione just sat in her chair, dumbfounded.


	3. Splinched

**Author's note:** I'm alive! Yes, I know I've been gone for a dreadfully long time, and I'll tell you why. There's been the usual, of course – lots of schoolwork, but I've also had a serious case of writer's block (and you know nothing good ever comes out of that). It just so happened, though, that the other night (when I was supposed to be studying) I happened to be inspired, and turned out most of the chapter at once. So... here you go!

I also want to say that I feel really horrible because I don't believe I actually thanked anyone personally for their chapter 2 reviews. I'm so so sorry, and I will definitely try better this time. Your reviews are amazing and I really appreciate it!

Chapter 3

Splinched

When Hermione woke the next morning she was, as most people are after sleeping the first night in a new house, disoriented. The moment her eyes opened she felt a short shock of confusion and anxiety – where was she? What had happened? Why was she not lying in her own bed? Her heart rate increased, her breathing hitched, and her palms grew clammy. Something was not right; something was not making sense...

And then suddenly it hit her. All the memories of the last night came flooding back – well, _almost_ all of them, anyway. She had been in the Three Broomsticks with her friends and then... well, she couldn't remember _that_ part. The next thing she knew she was waking up here, just like she was now, only she had known even less about her perplexing situation at that point. She had been scared, nervous, and, on top of all of that, sick.

Then there had been that boy. The one in the otherwise unoccupied house... the one who had called himself _Tom Riddle._ Hermione shuddered at the thought. But he had been so strange, so bizarrely polite. He had served her dinner. She remembered thinking that there was something strange about him. And then... then he had left, and Hermione, too tired and sick feeling to even _try_ and find a way back home, had gone back to sleep.

And now she was here.

For a few moments she just stared blankly at the unfamiliar room, watching the dust motes float lazily through the air. She was so groggy and, despite the flood of memories, did not feel like contemplating the previous night at the moment.

She laid back and sighed. The air was so cold and damp on her exposed skin... she felt no need to get up from under the covers just then. And it was still raining, too. She could hear the rain softly patter against the window.

Hermione did not know how long she stayed resting like that. She kept dosing in and out for what seemed like a long time, but in reality, could have been only a few minutes. Eventually, though, her mind began to sharpen out of the haze of sleep and she found herself thinking about her odd predicament.

Was she really alone here? What had happened to Harry and Ron? Where _was_ she? And just _who _was that random boy? Every time Hermione asked herself a question a new one formed in her mind, and all of them remained unanswered.

She supposed that she should start trying to find some answers, though, and soon. She didn't want to stay here very much longer – the empty house was starting to give her the creeps and to be honest, she was feeling quite homesick. And if that wasn't enough, she was beginning to have a strong, insatiable feeling of anxiety in the pit of her stomach – not for herself, but for her friends. If something had happened to leave her stranded _here_, what had happened to Harry and Ron? The thought of something bad happening to either one of them was enough to make her want to puke again.

No, she couldn't just let something bad happen. She had to find out where she was so she could try and get home, try and find her family. If Harry and Ron needed her, she did _not_ want to be wasting precious time spending a lazy day in bed.

Having finally made this resolution, Hermione threw back the covers and sat up. The icy air hit her skin with a shock, but she ignored this – there was no time to wait around and warm up. Instead, she jumped to her feet and, disregarding the still-painful migraine pounding in her head, left the room.

There were no reservations now; knowing that the house was mostly empty, she tore down the hallway with a sense of purpose, thudding loudly on the weathered wooden floors. She maneuvered her way skillfully through the cramped kitchen and around the chairs in the sitting room until she finally reached the front door. Like the night before, it swung open easily.

Her heart seemed to skip a beat. In the daylight she could now see what was in front of the house: trees. It was a wall of trees, densely packed, situated about twenty yards from the front door. She craned her head out into the sheet of rain – yes, it was still pouring – and looked out in either direction. The forest expanded, making, as far as she could tell, a barrier around the entire house.

_"No," _she whispered. A shiver ran down her spine at the prospect of being lost in the middle of the forest. No; it couldn't be. The house must _overlook_ a forest. If she ran around the other side she'd probably be on the edge of town, somewhere near home, somewhere she could find some information...

She had to find out. Hermione ducked her head back into the house and, slamming the door behind her, ran to the kitchen. She yanked on the doorknob of the door she had spotted last night and found that it was stuck. After a few increasingly frantic moments of tugging and negotiating with the antique wood, she was able to wedge the door out of its frame.

The view outside this door did nothing to ease her anxiety. In fact, it might have made it worse. There were more trees. Trees of all kinds, as far as the eye could see. Cedars, pines, oaks, scrubby plants she couldn't identify... And from here the land sloped down through the rain, so she could really see the expanse of the forest. For miles and miles, as far as the eye could see, were trees. Trees that went so far they eventually faded away on the horizon into the misty gray sky.

She was in the middle of nowhere. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What was she going to do? What _could_ she do? She couldn't _walk_ somewhere, that's for sure – she must have been miles away from civilization, and she especially wouldn't get anywhere in _this_ weather. She couldn't apparate, either – what if she was too far from home? Apparition was only good for a few hundred miles... she could splinch herself if she tried to travel too far. No, she'd have to find out where she was first, or find some other way to get back home.

Clearing her head, Hermione headed back inside. _There has to be _some _kind of way out of here, _she thought to herself. That way probably wouldn't include walking or apparating, but if this was a wizard's home he could very well have some Floo Powder lying around. And if he was a Muggles, well, shouldn't he have a telephone? Hoping very hard that he was magical, Hermione rushed over to the fireplace.

It was an old-fashioned, stone fireplace that looked as though it hadn't been used in months. _That's okay,_ Hermione reassured herself._ It doesn't mean anything._ Standing on tiptoes, she ran her hand across the cluttered mantelpiece and checked every trinket to see if something held Floo Powder. There were mostly solid figurines and a few picture frames, but at the very end was a small engraved box. Hermione's heart skipped a few beats at the prospect of leaving and eagerly pulled it down.

Her heart sunk. Inside was a handful of hard candies.

_Just great._

Scowling, she cast the box aside and began searching the rest of the room. There were plenty of places to look. The room was filled with end tables and bookshelves and wooden cabinets, all cluttered with knickknacks. Hermione searched through little wooden carvings, empty bowls, boxes filled with nuts and bolts, glass figurines... But nothing held Floo Powder.

At one point Hermione thought that she had struck gold when she came across a porcelain jar the size of a bread box. Unscrewing the top she saw that it was filled to the brim with powder and, too excited to really see was it was, scooped out a handful to use on the fireplace. After seeing that nothing happened when she threw it into the hearth, though, Hermione realized that the dark, musty powder was not Floo dust, but rather _ash._ Horrified, she nearly dropped the urn before sprinting off to scrub her hands.

An hour later, Hermione sat slumped on one of the stained armchairs, mulling over her predicament. She was confident, at this point, that there was absolutely no Floo Powder at all in the house: she had checked every room in the house, save for the locked guest bedroom at the end of the hall. A summoning charm hadn't worked either. And to make matters worse, she had noticed throughout the tour of the house that there were no electrical outlets on any of the walls. There were no light switches, no wires, and no light fixtures. This house was not equipped with electricity, and that meant that it was not equipped with a phone, either.

That thought gave her an unpleasant queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. No Floo, no telephone... what on earth could she do _now?_ She supposed she would just have to ask the boy where she was, whenever he decided to wake up. Who cares if she makes an ass out of herself? At this point she wanted to get home so badly that she had no desire to keep up with the stupid lies she made the night before.

Her head was starting to pound again, and Hermione shifted her body around to get into a more comfortable position on the chair. As she did so, something sharp jabbed into her back. She twisted around to see what it was.

It was a piece of parchment, its sharp corner poking out from within the chair. No, it's a _letter_, she realized a moment later, pulling it out of the crack between the cushions. She unfolded the weathered paper and, with a spasm of excitement, began to read.

_Dorian Nopsca_

_North Epping Forest_

_Essex, England_

_My dear friend, I know that we have arranged a visit for this May the 5__th__, but I'm afraid we will have to postpone our meeting for a short while longer. I find myself sick as of late and, (not requiring assistance, of course), would like to spend these next few weeks resting in solitude. Please forgive me for this cancellation, but I assure you we will have the opportunity to meet sometime later this summer._

_Most fondly yours,_

_Frederik_

Hermione jumped up, unable to contain her ecstasy. She was still in England! Whatever had happened, she was still close to home! She could apparate to Grimmald Place with no problem! And if she ever, for some God-forsaken reason, needed to get back here, she could: she knew the address!

Not wanting to waste another moment, Hermione cast aside the letter and moved into a less crowded part of the room to apparate. Picturing the warmth and comfort of home, she stepped forward, turned, and disapparated.

The moment she left, she knew something was wrong.

Normally, the experience of apparition was quite uncomfortable – Hermione typically felt as though she was being squeezed down a long, tiny tube, and would briefly experience a suffocating force pressing in on every inch of her body. It was a normal pain, though, one that she was used to. After all, it only ever lasted a split second, so the discomfort was hardly negligible.

So she knew something was wrong as soon as she left the living room. There was the same pain she usually felt, but this time the sensation was lasting long enough to actually _register_ in her nerves. She felt a scorch of fire run through her veins, her muscles wanting to collapse in on themselves, her skin pinching into oblivion. It was lasting entirely too long... she could physically _feel_ her body being torn to pieces. And she couldn't breathe. Hermione tried to scream, to gasp for breath, but there was nothing for her lungs to make use of. She was in a vacuum, a limbo of nothingness, and her body was going to die if this kept up any longer...

And as suddenly as it had happened, it stopped.

Hermione fell heavily to the ground, gasping for breath. The air entered her lungs with welcome; rushing through her trachea she could feel the cool, blessed oxygen run its course through her shaken body, quenching the thirst that seemed to have lasted a lifetime. She sucked in each lungful with pleasure – never before had she been so grateful for something so easily taken for granted.

After her body had had its fill she slowly, shakily, lifted herself from the ground. As she did so she noticed two things: one, that she was lying on floor of the house she had just left and two, that she was covered in blood.

Hermione looked at herself in surprise. Having been so preoccupied with breathing before, she hadn't noticed that her body was actually in quite a bit of pain. Her limbs were sore – they felt as though someone had gone and stretched her extremities outward, leaving her joints tender and aching. Her skin felt the prickling aftereffect of being burst apart, and her headache was even more unbearable than before. But even more noticeable was the deep throb emitting from her left hand. She looked down to see what the problem was and nearly jumped in shock.

She was missing a finger.

Hermione suppressed the urge to be sick as she stared at the bloody stump that was once her pinky. She didn't know how to react. The image was so gruesome, so shocking, that she couldn't possibly process it in her mind.

For a moment all she could focus on was the pain. _Oh, was painful_... and it was a different sort of pain than any she had ever felt before. This was not the kind of sharp, superficial sting she usually felt from a shallow cut on her skin. No, this was a deeper, more profound kind of throb, an ache that resounded from the very core of her body. Her nerves were screaming, her muscles aching, protesting at the profound bodily defacement. And it was intensifying every moment, throbbing through her hand and up her arm.

Hermione stared in horror at the wound. She blinked her eyes several times, erasing the phantom limb that her mind was forcing itself to see. There was no hiding the truth: she had been _splinched_.

She mentally shuddered; the name had suddenly taken on a truly grotesque connotation. Even when it had happened to Ron she had looked at the situation matter-of-factly, as though it was just a normal side-effect of being magical. But _this_... this was just _sick_. A piece of her was missing. A whole, irreplaceable chunk was just _gone_, lost into oblivion. This was not natural.

Her head swam with dizziness, but Hermione concentrated all her efforts on not losing consciousness. She had to stay awake to treat her wound... she was bleeding all over the place, and at this rate, couldn't lose anymore blood.

As if in response to her thoughts, the room began to spin in front of her eyes. Hermione shut them tight, blocking the sensation of vertigo, and took a few deep breaths to steady herself. When she opened them again all she could see was her mutilated hand, stark white under the dark smear of blood. There was too much blood. She had to do something quick.

What could she do? She knew some spells that would treat a wound, but dare she try her inexperienced hand at healing something as injured as this? Perhaps there was some kind of cream lying around here that would help the bleeding... but did she have the time or the strength to go looking?

No, she had to do something immediately. At this rate she'd be dead in twenty minutes. So, acting instinctively, Hermione's gaze swept the room for some kind of cloth that she could use to tie around her hand. When she didn't see anything, she grabbed her shirt with her good hand and roughly tugged it over her head. Once it was off she rolled it into a compress and tried to wrap it around the bloody stump. It was difficult – both hands were trembling and she couldn't tie the shirt tightly enough without the help of her left hand. And all the while the stump kept bleeding... bleeding so much it had soon soaked her shirt through. A pool of blood was beginning to form around her legs on the floor. Panicking, Hermione felt her eyes well up with hot tears. She wiped them away with her good hand, leaving a smear of bright blood across her cheek.

At this point, when Hermione was sure all hope was lost, the front door opened.

It was the boy from last night, the one that had called himself Riddle. He had evidently been out, hiking in the woods from the look of it, and seemed to be lost in thought as he crossed the threshold. As soon as he stepped inside, though, he froze. His eyes slowly widened as he took in the situation. Hermione could only imagine how she looked: blood-soaked, crying, disheveled, and shirtless.

There was an awkward pause.

He just stood there, as though waiting for an explanation. Hermione, on the other hand, remained sprawled out on the floor, pressing the shirt over her hand. Realizing that he was not going to inquire for himself, she tried to tell him that she had been splinched – but, still too upset to communicate in words, could only utter a low cry.

The boy didn't respond.

Hermione gave a sigh, which came out as a shaky sob, and unraveled the shirt from around her hand.

He recoiled at the sight. His mouth slowly hung open, and for a long moment seemed to be speechless. Hermione wanted him to come over to her, to help her hand, to do _something _to stop the bleeding, but he didn't move. He seemed either too shocked or too repulsed to come any further.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he spoke.

"_What, in Merlin's name, did you _do_?_" he whispered.

His eyes continued to flicker from her face to her hand, obviously waiting for an answer. Hermione wanted to tell him what had happened, ask him for help, but nothing came out. She didn't have the strength to string together a coherent sentence; all she could do was moan.

The boy took a tentative step forward. He surveyed the room, apparently searching for the source of the accident. Hermione waited while he pieced everything together. She was alone, there was no weapon... It was clear when he finally figured it out.

"You splinched yourself."

It was a statement, not a question

Hermione moaned again and nodded her head.

Another pause. _"...why?"_ he finally asked.

_'Why?'_ That sounded like an awfully stupid question – he made it sound as though she _deliberately_ wanted to mutilate her body. Who ever splinches themselves on purpose? The pain in Hermione's hand mounted to a point that was almost unbearable now. Tears fell freely as she tried to put more pressure on the wound. _"I don't know,"_ she finally wailed, becoming more and more frantic each moment. "I was _trying_ to get home!"

He cocked an eyebrow. _"'Home'?"_ he repeated.

"_Yes,_" she said through gritted teeth.

"Home..." he began pensively, "as in... '_England_' home?"

"Yes!"

He shook his head as though he had misheard her. "I'm sorry. Correct me if I'm wrong but... you _did _say that you just tried to apparate from _Albania_ to _England?_"

Hermione choked. Albania? She was in _Albania?! _For a moment she forgot about the pain in her hand. What in the world had happened to stick her in _Albania?!_ What happened to being in _Essex?_ In her surprise and outrage it was all she could do to not yell this out. Instead, she just managed another muffled sob.

The boy took a step forward. "_Do_ forgive me for my bluntness," he said slowly, "but why would you _ever _try to apparate from Albania to England?"

Hermione didn't answer. Now that she knew where she was, she felt awfully stupid. No wonder she had splinched herself – she was too far from home to even _consider_ apparition. Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes and continued to tend to her still-open wound.

"You _do_ know that there are spatial limitations to apparition," he said seriously. "The normal witch or wizard is typically limited up to a thousand miles. Not to mention that apparition into different countries is socially frowned upon. But – " he paused and surveyed Hermione's face with his dark eyes. "They should have mentioned all of this to you when you received your apparation license."

Even through the unbearable pain, Hermione was aware of his patronizing tone. Was he actually implying that she didn't have her apparation license?

"I know _that_," she finally said. "I just..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Oh, I don't know." She was starting to feel dizzy again, and was afraid she was loosing too much blood. Her shirt was so completely soaked through with blood at this point that it was dripping. She tried to wring it out one-handedly but it was no use; the cloth was too saturated to hold anything more.

Hermione dropped her head in defeat and let herself cry. It was shameful, yes, and useless too, but she didn't know what else to do. She sat there and sobbed for a good long time, painfully aware that the boy was still standing near the door, watching.

_Isn't he going to do something?_ She thought between sobs. Her hand felt as though it was on fire, and she wasn't sure she could take it much longer.

After what seemed like an eternity, he made a move. But – Hermione saw when she lifted her swollen eyes from her hand – he wasn't moving_ toward _her. He was moving away, backing out the door.

"Wait!" she cried desperately. "Don't go!"

The corners of his mouth tugged down into a grimace.

"Well," he began slowly, "I actually need to be somewhere right about now..."

Hermione drowned out the rest of his sentence. "Please don't leave! Can't you help? I don't... _I don't know what to do!"_

There was an awkward pause. The boy just stood there, his face totally composed, looking straight ahead as though he was contemplating the situation.

"Ah," he finally said, "well, I would really like to, but..."

_But?! _ Hermione mentally screamed at him. Was he honestly thinking of just _leaving_ her there like that? Her face contorted with horror as she thought of the prospect of being left alone.

"...I really don't have _any_ medical training whatsoever, so I don't know if I can be of any help..."

Hermione's breath became ragged. If _he_ wasn't going to do anything, what was _she_ going to do?

_"Can't you get help?"_ She raised her left hand again, trying to emphasize the urgency of the situation.

He frowned again. "To be honest, there's no one around here that could help you."

Hermione moaned.

"I'm terribly sorry," he continued, "but I'm afraid you would probably be better off looking for something around the house. Perhaps the Professor has something useful in the medicine cabinet." His face remained completely calm and composed as he said this. Despite the cruelty of his words and the murderous look Hermione was shooting him, he didn't flinch once.

"...and, as I said before, I really need to be somewhere right about now." He eased his way back out of the room and placed his hand on the doorknob. "I'm truly sorry."

Hermione glared at him. _He did not look sorry. He did not look sorry _one bit...

Ignoring her look, he took another step backwards, this time into the storm. He gave her a look that probably meant to be consoling, but failed so miserably it was downright cruel. Hermione watched in dismay as his hand pulled the door to its frame, closing it with a soft _click._

She was alone.


	4. The Good Samaritan

**Author's note:** I'm back! Once again, I know this update has taken me just about forever, but I seriously have a good excuse this time. However, I'm going to post my explanation on my author's page, because it's probably too long to be appropriate at the beginning of a chapter.

I promise the next update will come infinitely quicker this time. Pinky swear.

Chapter 4

The Good Samaritan

Hermione felt as though she had been doused with ice water. She stared in disbelief at the front door, now closed and dark with the absence of his presence, and willed it to reopen.

It stayed, obstinately, closed.

Horror washed over her body as Hermione considered the implications of this. He had left her. He had actually had the _nerve _to leave. What kind of cruel, heartless _monster_ would do such a thing? Any other self-respecting person would have stayed and tried to help, even if they had no idea of what to do. Why not stay for moral support? Why not lend a few kind words as she cried in pain? No; he had somewhere else to go… somewhere more _important _than here.

Letting all inhibitions loose, Hermione howled in frustration and hit her head against the wall. The pain in her hand was growing every moment, a fiery throb that pulsed from the source and up through her veins. She bit her lip, trying to think of something else, but all she could picture was his face as he closed the door. His features, contorted into a state of mock-sympathy, were otherwise unfazed as he left her behind. He hadn't cared at all and they both knew it. How? What kind of person could just abandon a situation like this? Who would have the complete and utterly outrageous _audacity _to leave a person wounded, stranded, and having no feasible way of finding help?

Actually, she could think of one individual who might actually enjoy doing such a thing.

_Voldemort._

If anyone was Tom Riddle, this man certain was. Hermione's mind wheeled as she put two and two together. That face – she had certainly seen it before – the ring, the cool demeanor, the detached and, even possibly, malicious words…. It was all there, but was she ready to believe it? How could this be possible? He had been killed two years ago. Each horcrux had been destroyed… right?

Her pondering was cut short as the pain mounted to a point that was almost unbearable. Mind-numbing throbs racked her body as she lay shaking on the floor, growing ever more clammy and dizzy.

_C'mon, Hermione,_ she thought to herself. _You have to think clearly now. No one is going to help you and you can't let yourself waste away because you were too upset to do anything about it._

But what could she do? She had no professional medical training. She had only ever taught herself a few basic first aid spells. Would something like that be sufficient for a severed finger? Of course there existed creams and potions that would stop the blood flow, and even more powerful spells that might actually mend the wound. But Hermione didn't know any spells offhand, nor did she have any access to such medicine. If only she had a bottle of Skelegrow on her… a goblet of that had once grown back every bone in Harry's entire left arm – surely it could grow back one tiny finger.

On the other hand, Skelegrow might not be useful in this kind of situation. George Weasley had lost an ear, and Mrs. Weasley hadn't been able to reattach it. Would that happen to Hermione? Would she live the rest of her life missing her left pinky?

But then again, people splinched themselves all the time, and they were always put back together in the end. People have literally torn themselves in two and were able to survive. Perhaps George's injury had been permanent because his ear had been cursed off by a Dark spell. Maybe splinching was different. Maybe her hand would be able to be healed….

Not that any of that mattered right now. Hermione, between throbs of pain, didn't particularly care if she had to live without an entire _arm _for the rest of her life. All she wanted at the moment was for the pain to stop. She tried to consider her other options, but frighteningly, nothing came to mind. How could something like this happen? How could she have been so stupid as to_ splinch_ herself and not be able to treat the wound? She was completely flabbergasted at the fact that, in all of her years of being a witch, none of her readings have prepared her for this. Never before had she felt so completely and utterly _stupid_.

Stupid or not, something had to be done. No one was going to get help and Riddle _certainly _wasn't coming back anytime soon, so Hermione would just have to do it herself. She did know some basic healing charms, after all… charms that would require a wand….

_Wait a minute._ Hermione's heart all but stopped. _Where was her wand?_

As if to add yet _another_ setback to her seemingly ever-growing dilemma, Hermione's wand was gone. Her stomach leapt into her throat. Had it rolled off somewhere, or had it been lost in a dimension halfway between Albania and London? Worried now that she was left in this horrid situation with no magical aid whatsoever, Hermione rolled over and began to frantically search on the floor.

_Oh no,_ she panicked. _Oh no, oh no, oh no…._

She could do without a finger. She could most certainly _not_ do without her wand.

Her hand was aching – in fact, her whole arm was aching now – and she felt nauseous again, and the dizziness would not seem to go away. All the while she was searching for her wand a small voice in the back of her head was warning her to stop; magic or not, she had to find some way to stop bleeding. She was losing too much blood, and the room was rocking too violently now for her to ignore it any longer. Then came the fuzziness, and everything was fading. Hermione stopped and steadied herself against the motion with her good hand on a chair – or was it a table? She shook her head. The light was dimming and there was a prickling sensation all over her body….

And then there was nothing.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was dark when she woke again.

Though her eyes were still closed, Hermione could tell that the sun had gone down. Rain still pattered softly against the side of the house and wind rattled the glass in the windowpanes. _Why was it always raining here?_ she thought lazily. Wherever she was lying was soft, albeit a bit lumpy, but certainly more comfortable than she had been when she last passed out. She felt warm and secure, under a blanket that was coarse and nubby. She felt absolutely no pain in her entire body.

Her eyes flew open.

What had happened? The last she could remember she had been frantically searching the floor for her wand, bleeding everywhere, before finally passing out. Hermione sat up and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She was still in the same room, but had been moved to one of the couches. A blanket had been draped over her body, and there, lying on her stomach, was her wand! Hermione lunged for it possessively and hugged it close to her chest. Never again would she leave it out of her sight…. She shuddered to think of what she would have done in that situation without it.

Wait a minute – what _had_ she done without it? Something had certainly been done, alright. Hermione raised her left hand and stared at it in astonishment.

The finger was still splinched – she apparently hadn't been lucky enough to escape the realities of _that_ – but the wound was amazingly healed. No longer was it bleeding, nor did it hurt at all. In fact, it was cleanly bandaged. How in the world had _that_ happened? Hermione didn't remember doing anything herself. Had Riddle come back after all? Tentatively, she poked the wound with her right index finger. There was nothing. No pain; no feeling at all. She flexed her left hand, much to the same result. The sharp, burning pain had gone. There was no ache – nothing. Nothing at all but the strange sensation of a phantom limb as she wriggled all four other fingers.

Had she not been so exhausted, Hermione would have cheered in relief.

However horrible her situation was at the moment, someone had been looking out for her. Content for the moment, she fell back into the comfort of the pillows and closed her eyes. Snuggling under the blanket once again, she felt that she couldn't have been more relieved, even if Ron had chosen that moment to storm through the door and carry her home. Well, almost.

Hermione must have dozed for only a few minutes, because the moonlight filtered through the windows in exactly the same patterns as before when she woke again. This time, however, something was different.

Someone was opening the front door.

Her entire body tensed. Gripping the wand tightly in her right arm, she sank lower into the couch cushions and stared intently up at the front of the room. Willing her eyes to adjust more quickly to the darkness, she could just make out the tall, thin figure of a man, a long traveling cloak, a wand….

"Riddle?"

The body stopped, tensed, and tipped a hand to his head.

"Good evening," he said. He closed the door and began to pick his way across the floor.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. He couldn't leave – not yet. She needed to know….

"Wait!"

She nearly jumped over the side of the couch to get to him before he left the room. Her wand still clutched tightly in her good hand, Hermione wordlessly lit its end as she skidded into place, blocking Riddle's way to the kitchen. He stared at her as she stood defensively in the threshold to the kitchen.

"Did you do this?" She held the bandaged in front of his face.

He raised a long, black eyebrow. "No," he answered dryly. "I believe _you _splinched yourself."

"No. Did you _heal_ me?"

"No. I was out all day." He paused. "You mean to tell me that _you _didn't fix that?"

She hesitated, feeling stupid. "Well… no." If _he _hadn't bandaged the wound, and _she _hadn't bandaged the wound… who did? And more importantly, where was that person now? Did they leave or were they still in the house? A shiver ran down her spine.

Riddle didn't say anything. The two stood in silence, letting the meaning of those words wash over their bodies. Or maybe it was just Hermione that felt that way. Perhaps he was just thinking of another way to escape again. Which reminded her…

"Where did you go today?" she asked suddenly, in a harsh voice. Her wand shot up to his chest and the brilliant light in his face made him wince.

"Excuse me?" he said, shielding his eyes with his hands.

The events of that morning came rushing back; Hermione could suddenly remember everything with astounding clarity. How much pain she had experienced… how helpless she felt… that look on his face as he found her sprawled across the floor… _how he had just left her to die in a pool of her own blood! _A snarl threatened to escape the back of her throat.

"You left me!" She opened and closed her mouth several times before speaking again, too overwhelmed with anger to string together a coherent sentence. "I was – and, and _you_ –"

He folded his arms, but didn't say anything.

Hermione felt her face grow hot. "I was seriously injured and you had the _nerve_ to actually leave me alone! So what was it? What was _so_ important that you just had to run off? _Do tell_, because I'm insanely curious to know how one person could be such a… such a, _a jerk!"_ Her face, if possible, grew even hotter. Seriously? She couldn't think of anything better to call him than a 'jerk'? She stuck her chin out despite her embarrassment. _"Well?"_

He did not look taken aback at this outburst, as Hermione would have hoped. Instead, he said coolly, "May I remind you that it was not_ I_ who caused the damage to your finger?"

"That's not the p– "

" –in fact," he continued, ignoring her, "I bear no responsibility for your actions, however ill-advised they have been. Frankly, I'm beginning to feel as though you are placing the blame on me for something you should be blaming yourself."

Hermione wanted to scream. For Merlin's sake, he just didn't _get it._

Instead of yelling, though, or even crying or pummeling his face into the floor like she wanted to, Hermione closed her eyes and counted to ten. "I don't want to argue about moral responsibility," she said through gritted teeth. "I just want to know where you went today."

He stared down at her over the bridge of his nose, as though seizing her up. His gaze seemed to burn a hole through her skin. "If you must know," he said stiffly, "I went into town."

"Yes, but what did you – wait, _what?_" Her mind wheeled. There was a town around here? This house wasn't in the middle of nowhere after all? The wand slipped from his chest as her arms hung limp in shock. "But – but I thought you said there was no one around here for miles…."

"No," he corrected. "I said there was no one around who would be able to _help _you. There's a difference."

Hermione racked her brain, trying to recall the exact conversation. All she could remember, though, was the pain and the look of betrayal on his face as he walked out of the house.

"You mean to tell me that there is a town within walking distance of here. _With people_," she clarified.

He cocked his head to one side. "Yes; towns are typically populated by people."

Hermione ignored him. "People with medical training, or supplies, or even ways to communicate with others…."

He didn't respond.

"And you're saying that they wouldn't help me if I had asked for it."

"It's a Muggle village."

"And that makes them incapable of treating a wound?"

"No."

For a moment, Hermione could have sworn that she saw red. Talking to him was so infuriating! He was so _unresponsive_, so _uninformative…._

"_Then _why _did you say they would not be able to help me?"_

"Because they would not _want _to help you." He said this as though it was obvious.

She threw her hands up in the air. "And how would you know _that?_"

He shook his head. "Why am I having this conversation?" he muttered under his breath.

Normally, Hermione considered herself to be a very composed person. There have been very few times in her life when she could not control her emotions in certain situations. After all, what was the use of getting upset with someone when the situation could be handled in a more appropriate manner? However, she had had it at this point. Waking up in a strange _Albanian _house, getting splinched, having to deal with _this_ character… it was all too much. She felt as though she was going to snap at any moment. Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned away from him. She stared out the window, at the dark trees in the yard that swayed in the wind.

"Where is it?" she finally demanded. The wand flew up to his chest again.

"I wouldn't recommend going there…."

"I don't give a _rat's ass_ what you recommend," she said heatedly. "Just tell me where it is."

He narrowed his eyes until they were black slits. A shadow crossed his face for the briefest moment, and then it was gone again. "Fine," he said. "Suit yourself; I don't care. It's due north of here. About a kilometer down the hill, maybe two."

"That's it?"

"_Yes._ Can I go now?" He eyed her wand.

Hermione lowered her arm. Suddenly unable to look him directly in the eyes, she nodded and stepped aside. Riddle wasted no time in leaving. "Good_night_," he said, and walked briskly through the dark kitchen and out of sight.

As soon as he was gone, Hermione let out a sigh and slid down the wall. When was Riddle planning on telling her that there was a town nearby? How long would she have stayed here alone without realizing that she was within walking distance of said town? Even if they were all Muggles, they would certainly have telephones, or an internet connection, or at the very least, some mode of transportation. Thinking about this, Hermione forgot to be irritated toward Riddle and instead began to plan her escape. She'd leave first thing in the morning, of course. It was too late now to attempt finding her way through a dark forest. If the town was only a kilometer or so away, she shouldn't have too much trouble finding it…. And then when she'd find it, she would try contacting someone she knew. Maybe if she could reach Harry, he'd floo over here and bring her back. If not, well, then she could always call a cab to the nearest airport, or hop on a train. She'd be fine; there were plenty of Muggle ways to travel.

Resting her elbows on her knees, she stared at her left hand. The missing limb just seemed so… _wrong_. Every time she glanced at her hand out of the corner of her eye, her mind wanted to fill in the missing space, and even though she knew what to expect, every time she'd get a little shock. At least it didn't hurt anymore, although that added to the oddity of the situation. An injury like this should still be throbbing.

Which reminded her: who had healed it?

She was certain that Riddle was telling the truth, and she didn't remember doing anything herself. And hands did not heal themselves, even in the magical world.

Was this mysterious healer still in the house? Were they waiting in her room? Hermione's heart started to pound as she stood up and creaked her way through the kitchen. The whole house was dark, absent of any human presence. Even the room Riddle had taken up occupancy in was dark; there was no glow emitting from the crack between his door and the floor. Holding her breath, Hermione poked her nose through the threshold to her room and expected the worst.

She exhaled loudly; there was no one there.

_Well,_ she thought, _maybe there are just a lot of Good Samaritans walking around the forests of Albania._

One that carries around medical tape in their back pocket?

Hermione mulled the possibility of this over as she walked into the middle of the room and sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. She thought about the bizarre place she had found herself in, the mysterious boy who claimed the same name as Voldemort….

Come to think of it, a Good Samaritan didn't seem that strange after all.


End file.
